Genesis
by Knight0fHeart
Summary: Boys who spend long nights staring at the moon and wondering what life could be like if they were able to do everything they wanted. A story in which Roxas lives in the shadow of the death of his brother and meets someone who could change his life forever. Axel/Roxas


_Your name is Roxas Kenway and you are the most pathetic human being on the face of God's green Earth. _

_You are graced with a mind that effectively makes you want to shoot yourself in the foot over and over. You want nothing more than to simply close your eyes and fall into a drug-induced stupor. Hopefully you'll never wake up. _

_Unfortunately, you'll have no such luck._

Chapter One – Genesis

It had been 4 days since you last saw the bright white of the fluorescent lights in your over-sized, all-too-luxurious bathroom, with its marble floors, Jacuzzi tub, and shower.

It's a miracle you're alive.

You remember it distinctly; you don't know how you made it out of this one. You took every pill in the house, ranging from Xanax to Percocet, Tylenol to Vicodin, Keterolac to Flexeril. You took those orange pill bottles and swallowed more than half of each. They tasted horrible, but taste was the last thing on your mind at that point. After a few handfuls of the various pills, you chased it all down with a swig of Jack Daniels from your parent's un-guarded liquor cabinet. The cleaning lady was there, as she was every day, and she was gazing upon you with much concern in her eyes.

You simply looked at her and said "Take the rest of the day off. In fact, take the week off. Just leave me alone."

She obeyed without question, gathering her things and heading for the door. You had stormed off to your room with the bottle of whiskey, and slammed the door behind you with much force.

Your room wasn't like most people's you knew. Their rooms always seemed to be messy, littered with dirty laundry and half eaten bits of food, a can of soda here or there, and the walls covered in band posters or pages ripped from magazines. But no, your room was immaculate, and entirely impersonal, just like the rest of your house. Sometimes you wondered if your parents hired the cleaning lady so they could at least say one thing in their life was clean and organized. As much as they'd like to deny it, their lives were a mess, filled with filthy secrets, lies that have left stains that have no hope of ever being washed away.

You knew both of your parents cheated on each other steadily. You always wondered how blind they could be to their mistakes. It doesn't take much to realize that they were both sneaking out, seeing as your mother comes stumbling through the house at three in the morning, giggling like a school girl and her clothes half torn up, and your father leaves the lacey panties that seem a bit too skimpy for your mother hanging haphazardly from his briefcase on the dresser.

You sat down at your desk after taking another long drink of the honey-coloured liquid, loving the way it burned your throat as it went down, warming you up from the inside. You had laid out a piece of paper and a pen for writing a letter to your parents, but you soon abandoned the idea. They don't come home for weeks at a time, and when they do, it's only to grab a drink and a quick fuck. They wouldn't check your room, and you told the maid to take the week off. It was pointless.

Walking to the door, you continued to drink from the bottle steadily, ingesting more than half. Only about 1/3 of the liquor remained from the previously full bottle. You opened the door again to find the house empty, and your vision swayed. Everything was slow.

You wanted to cry. But you wouldn't. There's no pity for a man who takes his own life.

You walk into the bathroom across the hall and turn on the light, staring at yourself in the mirror. Quite frankly, you looked like shit. You put the bottle down on the counter and splashed some water on your face. It didn't help much, your vision was still doubled and you were swaying now, unable to keep your balance. Whether this was from the alcohol or the pills, you weren't sure, and you didn't care.

You grabbed the bottle and tried to walk around the bathroom, searching for a window, but instead you lost your balance and fell onto the hard floor. The bottle smashed and shattered, sending pieces of the broken glass clattering on the floor all around you, and the liquid spread throughout the marble, most likely staining it. But you didn't care, you didn't want to get up. Who gave a damn if you got cut up a bit, you sure didn't. A million things were running through your head, and at the same time, there was nothing on your mind. You were everything you had ever wanted to be in that moment and you were simultaneously becoming the person you swore you'd never be. You hated the world. You admired it's beauty. You wanted to die. You wanted to live.

And before you knew it, the darkness slipped over you like a blanket, and the last word you said to yourself was simple.

"No."

And now you're here, sitting in the shower, in immense pain. You were spared by some vengeful God who decided it just wasn't your time yet, and you laid in your own puke and piss for four days before waking up. You passed out face down, and somehow managed to roll over in your semi coma so you wouldn't choke in your own vomit. Truly a miracle.

When you opened your eyes, you sincerely hoped you were somewhere that wasn't here. And for a moment, you believed your prayers to a god with no name were answered. The harsh lights of the room blinded you as you opened your eyes and you couldn't feel much of your body. But just as soon as you let your hopes up, everything came crashing down. Your surroundings finally came into focus, and the scent of stomach acid and urine hit you like a truck.

Your face was caked in dried puke and blood, with little shards of glass in your hair and damn near everywhere else. You pushed yourself up off the ground, and groaned in discomfort. Your abdomen hurt like hell, probably from the (apparently, not lethal) dose of alcohol and prescription medication. You clenched your teeth and looked around. You didn't quite remember where you were or where you were. You probably couldn't even say your name. Upon locating the mirror, you jumped internally. You picked at the flakes on your skin and watched them fall to the floor before realizing what horrid conditions you had been left in. You couldn't quite tell what was what, considering the whiskey and your urine were about the same colour, but you didn't want to check. You sighed and walked down the hall to the utility closet, grabbing a mop and bucket, the spare that belonged to the maid, and returned to the bathroom.

You never thought you'd be having to clean up this mess. You thought it would be easy.

It's not. You know that now.

After having cleaned up the mess you made, and throwing the last bits of glass in the trash, you stepped into the shower. Your clothes were still on, but you figured you could deal with that later. You could always deal with anything later.

You let the water pour over you, the small cuts of your face and arms stinging the slightest bit when the water licked at the wounds you could not. And for the first time in your life since you had been a child, you cried. You cried and cried and let the salty tears mix in with the water and swirl down the drain. You knew it would only get harder from here on out. You bit at your lip, and sniffled a little, pulling yourself together. You stripped your clothes off from your body and left them to soak, giving yourself a quick scrub with some soap left on the edge of the tub.

You were a smart kid. A good student. And damn quick to get out of a bad situation. But your picture perfect family was gilded. The exterior shone bright like the finest gold, but upon closer examination, the core was rotten and deplorable. Sure, you could have gotten help. You could always get help.

But you always told yourself you could take care of yourself. You weren't raised tugging at your mother skirt, and you won't start that now. People won't always be there to help you. You had to learn how to stand on your own.

You don't seem to be doing a very good job of that.

You hold on to the edges of the tub, groaning as your legs protest against the strain of standing. Your abdomen hurt like hell fire, but you gritted your teeth and took it. You deserved it.

Wrapping yourself up in a towel, you stood in the middle of the bathroom, the air hanging thick around you, the mirror fogged. You made your way over to the mirror and looked at yourself. Sighing heavily, you turned on the faucet and splashed some cold water on your face, scrubbing at it, even though there wasn't much left to scrub. You breathed shakily, and closed your eyes, your grip on the sides of the sink tightening. Knuckles white like snow, you almost wanted to punch the mirror, or rather, punch your reflection in the mirror. But as quickly as the flame ignited, it went out. You let out a sigh of defeat and pushed your hair back. You grabbed the toothbrush and put more toothpaste on it than you use in a week, and scrubbed at your teeth, your tongue, and your cheeks. The taste of bile was soon replaced by the taste of Crest White Peppermint and regret.

You opened the door to the bathroom and headed down the hall to your room. Nobody was home, as usual, so you didn't bother to be modest. You let the towel fall off your slender hips before you even opened the door, walking straight to your closet. You picked out a pair of black boxer briefs and a grey tank top, and turned around. Looking out the window, you realized it wasn't daytime. A quick glance at the clock on your bed side table told you that you were correct. It read 2:26 AM, and you groaned. You threw yourself on the bed (which quickly proved to be a bad idea, every muscle in your body screaming at you) and closed your eyes. Staring at the ceiling, you thought back as far as you could. You wanted to know what made you turn out like this, what made your family such a wreck. Ever since you were born, your family has always treated you like shit, like an intruder in their home. There was never a kind word ushered your way, and you can't help but wonder why. You usually aren't the type of person to wonder about things like this, you usually leave it alone and let it run it's course. But 17 years seems a long time to let something like this fix itself.

Your stomach grumbled and you ignored it, but paired with the pain you were feeling, it was too much of a nuisance to ignore effectively. You rolled out of your bed and caught yourself right before you hit the floor, standing up slowly to saunter off to the kitchen. You left your room and walked slowly and heavily down the stairs that wound themselves down in a gentle spiral to the foyer, the floor cold on your feet. Passing by the table against the wall in the large hallway, you happened to catch a glimpse of a framed picture that has also been there as long as you remember.

It was an ink imprint of a baby's footprints. Underneath the small footprints, it read a name that didn't belong to you. "Sora Kenway". Suddenly, you remembered why your family hates you so. You breathed heavily and continued on to the kitchen. Pulling down a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, and another of jelly from the fridge, your mind was plagued by the story of Sora. You never knew your brother. Only what your parents had told you about him. But you know it's your fault he's dead. And that makes you feel like trash.

Your mother didn't even want kids. And it seems the people who never want something always get much more than they ever asked for. She was pregnant with two twin boys. Her and her husband fought over it a lot, and decided they were both financially well and were more than capable of having two boys.

Having twins and raising them are two different things.

They bought pairs of everything. Two cradles, two pairs of pajamas, two box sets of toy cars, two of just about anything money can buy for kids. And while your mother seems to hate you with all her guts, you know she loved you at some point. Loved both of you.

When your mother's water broke, they rushed to the hospital and everything was going fine. They checked her in and realized she was just about to go into labor. While she was giving birth, the doctors went silent. You came out healthy, bright eyed and ready to face the world, but Sora wasn't so lucky.

You were a large baby, and it took a little longer for your mother to push you out than usual. In that short time, Sora was more than ready to come out and face the world, the brave little soul. But in his rush, your umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. Your mother knew something was wrong, and she asked what was happening. The doctors tried their hardest to help unravel him from the cord, but by the time they were able to get to him, he had already died, so close to being born. It's ironic, dying at the hand of the cord that kept you alive for 9 months prior.

Your mother began to cry when she finally gave birth to Sora, who was so much smaller than you, and she didn't hear him cry. She didn't hear him gasp of choke or cough. It was silent. The doctors took him away as quickly as they could. They tried to resuscitate him, but he was long gone, his spirit already floating around in the room above their heads. They came to offer their condolences, and she could barely comprehend a word they were saying, she just didn't understand. Her baby was healthy, they told her. How could he be dead?

They explained to her how it was your umbilical cord that wrapped around his neck. How you killed him, and they did everything they could to try and save him.

From that point on she wanted as little to do with you as possible. She only gave you the necessary amount of care needed to help you grow up, and never more. You remember being 4 years old and coming into her room. She took one look at you and began to scream and sob, telling you it was all your fault, that he didn't have to die, that you were a monster. The maid came in and took you away from the scene and brought you to the living room. You were confused, and hurt. You didn't understand.

This was a reality you learned to live with. Your father could care less, but your mother constantly reminded you what a horrid person you are, and how she should have gotten rid of you when she had the chance. It's probably what turned you into such a bitter and hard person you are now.

You finished making your sandwich and put the jars back in their place, tying up the bread and leaving it on the counter. You walked back up the stairs and instead of going into your room, went into the study.

You always enjoyed the study. It was a wide open space with dark furniture and lots of large windows that let in the moonlight. Along the walls were countless bookshelves, work benches, and your fencing material. You had to admit that coming from a wealthy family had some perks. Your favourite perk being the fact that you were able to afford fencing lessons for about 3 years consecutively. You were head of the class, and enjoyed it.

You sat down at the desk and looked around, munching on the sandwich. You devoured it quickly, even though your stomach was protesting vigorously and your throat burned from the acid you have brought up in your comatose state. You leaned back and sighed, rubbing at your eyes.

After stretching out a bit, you looked down at the desk top, and saw some paper scattered about. After closer inspection, you realized what it was. You groaned loudly. You had school tomorrow.

Looks like your summer vacation is over.


End file.
